The Louisiana Democrat. [volume] (Alexandria, La.) 1845-1918, 1887-01-26

that he should like her. tor in truth
she was something very like sunshine.
When she came back five minutes aft
erwards from showing John Earring tc
the guest chamber, Celeste was not
visible, and with smile she went
lightly about the rooms looking fo1
her. Presently she heard low ripple
of laughter in the little conservatory
and swept with a quick graceful mo-
ton to her. :.
80, you little mink" she cried.
drawing her out from among the flow
ers and gazing smilingly into her face,
''you are very deep indeed! Isn't this
the Western orphan boy you told me
of after You had been to Openstone a
long time ago? All! ali! begin to see
why the other seekers have always,
small and great, been sweetly shaken
off. All! ahr' and she gave the pink
cheek next to her a little pinch with
her finger tips and laughed.
"Don't you like himp' asked the
girl, giving up her laughing pout for a
quick, eager look into the CHEEKY face.
For answer the other sobered as
she saw the look in the clear, appeal
ing eyes, and with mist rising into
her own, drew the slender girl close
against her and held her there with the
silkeu head nesting against her neck.
Then she kissed her tenderly, and
with her arm about her they went out,
the younger with her eyes upon the
carpet. and the elder looking out be-
fore her with a tfar slipping down
either cheek. 1
John Earring fou id the dinner houl
almost pleasant \ syond words, save
that Celeste secmedi, little shy. He had
never known muchehat was lovely in
domestic life, and now, after his years
of the little room under the roof OF
Bowers Block, and the rather men
agerie-like methods about the pub
lie board of the Open stone Ho-
tel, the chaste and tranquil
atmosphere that enveloped Mrs. Bray
tons snowy table pervaded him with
very grateful sense. He felt the
spirit OF his surroundings enter and
sooth him like a sweet perfume, and
talked on in his fine, quiet way through
what seemed to him the first real hour
of happiness he had ever known.
Celeste was ready with smile and listen.
ing ear, but not with many words,
while the young man and Mrs. Bray
ton got on very fast and smoothly to.
gether. Something in the air made
him tell them of the beautiful things
he had seen, with such language as
only poetic insight creates, and with
such relish as comes alone of an un.
stated heart. Then, helped on by the
elder lady, he unconscioasly unfolded
his pity for the poverty and wretched-
ness he had seen, and Celeste through
her luminous eyes seemed to come
very near to him.
After that, the lucent June days be-.
gan to stretch away swiftly, with the
first sense of soft delight increasing in
the young mans blood until he felt
life, with its fair surroundings and daily
privilege of looking upon Celeste $ face,
a very delicious thing. Now and then
his natural inclination to be at work
wrenched at him, and he said to HIM
self that he had come to be only an
idler, a sort of pleasure-enfeebled shirk.
er in the game of life, yet he had had
so little of gladness he could not take
his lips away from the bright bowl
when at last he held it in his hands.
He said to himself he should be going,
but the soft law that held him and that
he did not recognize, was too strong
for him. Then he had no kin or estab.
lished interests to take him away, why
should he not loiter little?
Then, too, the pure, motherly
regard of Mrs. Brayton, thing
denied him in his previous life, was
very comforting. In few days she
had told him of her son, lost in the wal
before he had come of age; of he1
daughter, a young wife in Cleveland;
of her own husband, once merchant
of the city, who died three summers be-
fore, leaving her an income ample for
her needs and something over with
| which to ease her heart of its Chart
f! able promptings. Then she told him
of Celeste S life, an absorbing theme to
him and strange and sweet in its rev.
Citations. How Celeste's father had
been Colonel in the war. and lost his
life leading a charge on the field OF
Antietam; then how the won
derful wife and mother took
her child and entered the service as a
soldiers nurse; of the brave, helpful
life they led. of the mothers heroic
deeds, of the child's carrying water to
the wounded in the Wilderness, of her
wound in the limb with musket ball
which left her limping through life,
of the mothers life and death as a
newspaper correspondent at Washing
tss. when the war was over. and Ce.
leste's coming to Cincinnati to share
her home.
The narrative touched the soft-heart-
ed, bravery-loving John Earring as
with invisible fire. 1t seemed to him
he could feel Celeste's wound, and see
the blue-eyed, bird-like child with cups
of water in her hands giving drink
to the dying upon the field OF carnage.
1t thrilled him; where had he been in
that heroic hour? Working out his
supposed debt of gratitude in Joel
Whitney's store! Though it was not,
| yet his own honest action seemed triv.
ial to him. Prompted by loving pity,
of what bravery had she not been ca
pable! All, the noble daughter Of the
dead soldier! This, arch, shy, gentle,
slender, silver-throated Celeste! Was
it possible such strength and selfless
fire lay back of all her chaste and soft
docility? Surely he was only boy, he
thought, and did not yet know much
of women.
| Every morning he walked with hel
down the hillside through the sweet